Graffiti
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: It's supposed to be a way to prove himself to the others after Dudley leaves, but there's something liberating as Piers commits vandalism.:: for Lo


_Criminology, task 1: Write about committing a crime _

_Word Count: 1799_

* * *

The four of them are sitting on the swingset. Day is quickly giving way to night, and the orange sky is edged with inky blue that spreads slowly, swallowing the fiery glow and leaving starlight in its wake. Piers lights another cigarette because he has nothing better to do, and the smoke feels good on his nerves even if it stings his lungs.

He doesn't have anything to say. Dudley is gone, and he knows Malcolm, Gordon, and Dennis were always Dudley's friends. They only ever tolerated Piers because Dudley said they had to. Honestly, that should depress Piers; somehow, it doesn't.

The park is empty except for the four of them. No one ever dares to come this way at night. The four of them, along with Dudley, became the monsters that mothers tell their small children about. _The park isn't safe at night, my darling_, Piers imagines them saying. _Bad men hang around the swings and do bad things._

Except Piers isn't really bad. At least, he doesn't think he is. He's made some stupid mistakes, and he doesn't run with the most wholesome crowd, but none of them are really _bad. _They're a little rough around the edges, but he thinks that maybe they're okay underneath it all.

Gordon elbows Malcolm and mutters something too low for Piers to hear. The two of them laugh before exchanging knowing smiles with Dennis. Piers takes a deep drag on the cigarette, desperate for the distraction. He doesn't like the way they look at him now. He knows that look all too well. It's the look of a predator waiting to jump on its prey and rip it to shreds. That look is normally saved for the easy targets that the street offers, but tonight Piers is the one locked in their sights.

He summons all the courage he has. "You got something to say, say it to my face," he says simply.

He can take Gordon easily enough. Piers' job has always been to hold people in place, but he can throw a punch, which is more than he can say about Gordon. Malcolm and Dennis, on the other hand, won't be as easy. Piers just hopes it doesn't come to a fight.

"Chill, Polkiss," Malcolm says with a roll of his eyes as he smooths down his coppery hair.

"We know you aren't so tough without Big D behind you," Gordon quips.

With a smirk, Dennis tucks a cigarette between his thin lips and lights up, the orange glow of the flame casting menacing shadows on his angular face. "Piers _wishes _Dudley would be behind him," he says with a sneer. "Fucking fairy."

Despite the darkness that surrounds them, Piers can only see red. He drops his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and jumps to his feet, hands forming angry fists. It doesn't matter that he called Piers that; Piers has heard so much worse. But he knows it isn't a jab at him, but rather at his cousin-turned-guardian Max. It may be a fight he will lose, but Piers is ready to start swinging. No one insults Max and gets away with it.

Before Piers can move, Malcolm steps in between them, clucking his tongue. After Dudley's disappearance, Malcom took upon himself to be the leader of the little gang. He's an idiot, but he relies more on his fists than his brain to dominate the streets.

"Come on, Polkiss," he says, lips curling back into a shark-like grin that reveals crooked, yellowing teeth. "Dennis was just kidding. Can't you take a joke anymore?"

"What the hell do you want?" Piers asks.

Malcolm glances back at the other two. A silent conversation seems to pass among the three of them. After what feels like an eternity, he turns back to Piers, still grinning that dangerous grin. "We've been talking about it," he says, folding his arms over his chest, "and we aren't sure that you actually belong anymore."

Dennis shakes his head, shaggy white-blond hair whipping against his freckled face. "What do you even do?" he asks.

"Not a damn thing," Gordon says, laughing.

Piers' cheeks burn, and he hates himself for it. It isn't as though he actually likes them. "Right. Well, if we're done here…"

He turns on his heel, but he doesn't make it a single step before Malcolm's hand rests on his shoulder, squeezing a little too tightly. Piers can feel the bruises forming at the rough touch. Malcolm forces him back to the center of this little meeting.

This is it. This is how it ends for him. He's seen the damage the three brutes can do; hell, he's contributed to their chaos before. Best case scenario, a good Samaritan will find him on their morning jog, broken and beaten to a bloody pulp. Worst case scenario… Well, he doesn't want to think about that.

"It's really rude to walk away from someone who's trying to help you," Malcolm says.

"Help me?" Piers asks, the skepticism heavy in his voice.

"All you have to do is prove you aren't a little bitch," Malcolm tells him before holding out his hand. Dennis tosses him his backpack. "What do you say, Polkiss?"

Piers watches as Malcolm unzips the bag, his curiosity getting the best of him. He isn't sure what he's expecting, but the cans of spray paint feel anticlimactic. "Taking up art, are you?" he asks with a roll of his eyes.

"Funny." Malcolm thrusts the bag into Piers' hands. "You're gonna prove your worth tonight. You were always too happy to hide behind Big D and let him do all the heavy lifting."

"Pathetic," Dennis says, lighting another cigarette and inhaling. He blows out a puff of smoke. "Gotta pull your weight if you wanna stick with us.'

Piers opens his mouth. He wants to tell them he doesn't want to stick with them, but the words are trapped in his throat. At the end of the day, they are the only friends he has, even if _friends _is too generous a term for it. He is still weak, and he doesn't know if he can make it on his own. Sure, he's tough in his own way, but he doesn't think it's actually enough. He has to do this.

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he looks up. "What do you want me to do?"

…

He hates this so fucking much. The paint can shakes in his hand, and he can't seem to steady himself. Piers looks over his shoulder. The street is abandoned, but that doesn't make him feel any better. For once, he can't help but miss Malcolm's company. His idiocy would be better than the eerie silence.

Taking a deep breath, he studies the building. It isn't anything important, just a tiny church. He doubts it has more than a dozen members. Why would they care if he just…

"Come on." He lifts the can. Why does it have to be so hard? "It's just a church."

His parents used to take him to church every Sunday. They told him they had to punish him because he disobeyed God. Every time they beat him, they said it was because God loved him so much and wanted him to be pure.

He hasn't stepped back inside a church since his parents' deaths all those years ago. The anger should be gone. They can't hurt him anymore, and their God doesn't seem to exist. Why should he be afraid now?

He holds the top down. Color bursts from the can with a hiss, and Piers grins. There's something liberating about leaving streaks of red over the window and down the brick that frames it.

When the first can is empty, he hurls it at the glass. The window shatters.

Piers pulls out a second can and pops the lid off. He doesn't hesitate before vandalizing the walls now. It isn't even about Malcolm and his little crew anymore. Each streak of color, each threatening word, each evil symbol brings him peace and closure he never knew he needed.

Another can goes through a second window. He's about to pull out a third can when the light hits him.

"Hands up!"

…

Max doesn't look angry when he picks Piers up from the station. That's the worst part. Piers would be so much better off if Max would scream at him or try to hit him. Instead, there's a clear disappointment in his dark, tired eyes.

Piers tries to recall the day. He winces as he realizes his cousin should be at work. The last thing he needs is for Max to lose another job because of him.

"Do I even want to ask?"

Piers swallows. Would Max understand? It's always been so easy to write off Piers' problems as a result of being abused for the first decade of his life. Does that still hold up now? Could he really explain to Max that he felt like he was finally getting revenge on his parents, that they used to beat him in the name of religion?

"What were you even doing there?" Max asks. "You said you were at Malcolm's."

Piers opens his mouth before closing it again. He just shakes his head.

"Lying to me, vandalizing churches, coming home at all hours of the night…"

This is it. This is the moment Max gives up on him. Piers wonders if seventeen is too old to be adopted.

Instead, Max just sighs before smoothing his hands over his black curls. "I know you've been going through a lot, after Dudley split," he says. "You need better friends.I wouldn't be surprised if that punk Malcolm put you up to this."

Piers starts to deny it but stops. What's the point? Max is right. With a shrug, he says, "He did, but I'm the one who did it."

"Yes, you are. And that's exactly why you will be volunteering at the church until your eighteenth birthday."

"That's not fair!"

"You're right. Fair would be letting you sit in jail and be marked as a criminal. I spoke to the minister when I got to the station, and we've worked out a deal."

Piers bites the inside of his cheek, squirming guiltily. With nothing to say for himself, he hangs his head and follows his cousin out.

Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe it will give him a chance to meet people better than Malcolm and the other idiots could ever hope to be, and Piers can finally learn what it means to have friends. A smile pulls at his lips as he gets into Max's car. He will figure things out, one way or another.

All he had to do was crash and burn to find his way.


End file.
